


Matters of The Heart

by sadieb798



Series: The Start of Something [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Declarations Of Love, Discussions of Asexuality, Discussions of Love, Discussions of sex, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Love, M/M, Mary is deep, Mary knows what she wants, Multi, Other, Platonic Romance, Polyamory, Polyamory relationships, Protective Sherlock, Relationships aren't his area, Romance, Series 3, Sherlock is confused, The Empty Hearse Spoilers, calm Mary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 21:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadieb798/pseuds/sadieb798
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finally, she sighed inwardly, no more dancing around the subject, because, quite frankly, her feet were beginning to hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Matters of The Heart

**Author's Note:**

> We're just zipping along here aren't we? Wow I'm amazed. I've got mixed feelings about how Sherlock feels towards sex. Don't get me wrong, I love the idea that he would know just by the cuffs on your sleeves what kind of kink you'd be in to and could use that against you. But to write Sherlock, I've tried to stay true to what Benedict has portrayed to us, and to use that in order to explore what his character would do. It's frustrating, but I'd rather write what Sherlock would actually do rather than what I'd LIKE him to do

Sherlock was icy towards Mary as she paid for the dress, and it was something that everyone could pick up on; it was as though Sherlock became the living embodiment of an icy tundra. Even Shaun refused to say anything to Sherlock as he run them up even though he was heavily flirting with him just fifteen minutes ago. Mary couldn’t blame him; she had absolutely no idea what Sherlock was going to do or say, and didn’t want to do anything to further anger him. So she smiled politely, said a very few words of thanks as Shaun handed her her dress that was inside a large blue bag on a hook and then they left.

It wasn’t until they were on the street kerb outside the shop that Sherlock turned to Mary and spoke.

“Baker Street,” He commanded, briefly staring her down with his cold, cold eyes before raising an arm to call a cab. “Now.”

The cab ride to Baker Street was anything but comfortable. Sherlock was continuing to resonate coldness that even the cab driver could pick up on though there was a glass separator between him and them. The entire ride, neither spoke and Mary didn’t mind: she was busy mentally formulating strategies for each and every scenario that might play out.

Too quickly the cab stopped at the door to 221 Baker Street. Mary quietly panicked as her heart plummeted to her stomach, but she was resolute to keep calm. And so it was with this resolution in mind that she got out of the cab, following Sherlock to the door after he tossed some notes at the cab driver. He stuck his flat key into the lock and swiftly opened the door, calmly and authoritatively stepping into the flat’s entrance. He left the door ajar for Mary as she stepped inside.

“Close the door,” he rumbled. She obeyed, shutting the door behind her with a soft clatter.

He nodded his head up the stairs. “After you,” he said.

Mary remained impassive as she slowly took each step up the stairs, her heart pounding like a loud drum in her ears; she could feel the chill from Sherlock’s frostiness following close behind her, sending goose pimples along her flesh. It didn’t take long for them to finally reach the flat. She opened the door and let them in.

“Take a seat,” he said, moving away. Mary caught sight of him from the corner of her eye as he removed his scarf and coat and placed them on the hook behind the door.

She made a move directly for John’s chair and was about to sit when she heard Sherlock say “Don’t.”

She looked up at him. His eyes were flashing warning signs as he stood ram-rod straight, and tense. He looked like an animal who’s territory she had trudged upon.

“Not his chair,” he practically growled. He took one of the chairs from the desk and smoothly spun it so that it faced his chair. “Here.”

She stood up slowly, keeping her movements minimal. “Why?”

“Because you have a case,” he stated. The _obviously_ at the end went unsaid.

Mary was silent as she untied her scarf and tossed it aside on the couch behind her. She unbuttoned her coat and slung it on the back of the chair. She sat down, the chair creaking with her weight.

Sherlock sat down at his designated chair, steepled his fingers together against his lips, both elbows perched against the armrests and stared at her.

They both stared at each other for a full two minutes, each trying to read the other and both being just as unreadable. Then Sherlock opened his mouth with an audible smack and took a breath.

“Let’s play a game,” he said as though it were a suggestion, giving her a smile that lacked any feeling.

Mary raised an eyebrow. As first words went, those were not the ones she had expected.

“Let’s play,” Sherlock began, “ ‘why is Mary showing a keen interest in her fiancé’s best friend’ game.”

Mary’s blood ran cold.

“I’ll start, shall I?” Sherlock continued, leaning forward in his seat. “Mary Morstan you’ve been showing increased levels of interest in me.”

“You’re John’s best friend,” she pointed out. “I just want to be in your good books--”

“No, no,” Sherlock said, shaking his head in minimal movements, his eyes fixated on her. It felt as though he were peeling her apart, layer by layer with just his eyes. “That doesn’t fool me. No, the evidence stacked up against you is enough.”

“Such as?” She asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Teatime-Tuesdays,” Sherlock said as though he needn’t go on, and really he didn’t. Mary’s stomach took a swan-dive.

“A gathering, once a week, every Tuesday to meet John’s best friend and to get to know him better.” He sat back again, keeping his eyes on her face. “That was what John said to me anyway, when he suggested the idea, but I had an inkling there was something more.

“It was gradual enough, I’ll grant you that,” he continued, analytically. “The brushes of fingertips here, the squeezes of the forearm there, the feather-light kisses--perfectly innocent, not enough to rouse suspicion; not enough to make me question it.”

“So what did?” Mary asked.

“The tea trays,” Sherlock answered icily. “Odd that someone who is short in stature and has difficulty reaching things on high shelves without a footstool, and whose traits her intended also shares, would pick that particular spot of all the places around the flat to place the tea things.” His eyes turned ice cold blue as he continued to cut into her, looking for any reactions to what he was saying that Mary refused to give. “How convenient that she has a tall friend to reach said high places.”

“And who has an affinity for tight clothing,” Mary pointed out, quirking the corners of her lips. She couldn’t help but tease him. He frowned at her unexpected jibe into his deducing.

He cleared his throat.

“Yes, _that_ was also obvious,” Sherlock said, continuing to stare at her.

“ ‘That’?” She said, visibly relaxing.

“Your staring at me while recovering the tea trays,” Sherlock responded. “All the obvious signs really: dilated pupils, your habit of biting your thumbnail to keep from making noises of the erotic nature. Then your involvement with the sink breaking, and John leaving the room in his drenched state.”

“Ah but if you recall,” Mary pointed out, “I left you alone then.”

He frowned as though he tasted something unpleasant. “Yes, there are one or two links to the chain that I need from you to complete.” He waved his hand as though it were a trifle. “Let’s fast-forward to today and your obviousness.”

Mary blinked rapidly. “Obviousness?”

“The first shop,” Sherlock clipped out. Mary’s smile fell, and found its way onto Sherlock’s face.

“You knew there was something unusual about that shop,” he said, allowing his face to become expressive, and frowning in thought. “Why there were so little reviews on its webpage, why there were out-dated dresses in the shop’s window display,” Sherlock pointed out. “You knew that something was going on and so brought me along to investigate.”

“I call it a getting-to-know-you present,” Mary corrected, leaning back against the chair and smiling mildly. “I wasn’t expecting it to be a sex-trafficking ring though, I’ll give you that.”

“Obvious,” Sherlock said, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “The IP addresses used on the reviews for the webpage came from different locations across the globe, and a few here in London. The leaders of the ring were speaking in code to their customers, but not those interested in dresses--no, those interested in people. Each word meant something different. They were using the reviews page on the site to communicate and exchange _people_. It was a contract on a public forum.”

Mary frowned in thought and nodded. “Well done,” she acknowledged.

“Meretricious,” Sherlock said, waving a hand again but Mary could tell he was pleased with himself. “Now let’s move on to the second shop.”

“What about it?”

“You,” He said, practically spitting the word out as his eyes cut sharply into her. “ ‘Do you love me?’ ” He clipped out in a hurtful, mocking tone.

Shivers ran down Mary’s spine and she couldn’t help but grow tense. He leaned forward sharply and looked like a lion about to pounce on its prey. “I had suspected for some time that your feelings for me transcended those of amicability for your fiancé’s best friend: the constant touching, the dilated pupils whenever you saw me, your changes in breathing pattern while I was talking during tea, the constant biting of your thumb, your elevated pulse when I touched your hands--but your question today was the final proof I needed.”

Mary quirked an eyebrow. “So what’s stopping you?” She asked. He frowned deeply. “You have all your evidence, what’s stopping you from telling John?”

“I am giving you a chance to explain yourself before I make my final judgement,” he said imperiously as he settled back into his chair, leveling her with his eyes, looking every bit like the judge he played.

“But it’s more than that isn’t it?” She asked leaning forward, smiling brightly. “You’re unsure, that’s why you’ve brought me here to explain myself.”

His eyebrow quirked minutely. “What’s there to be unsure about? You’re in love with me.”

She smiled. “Yes, but you’ve been paying attention.”

“So?” He asked, shrugging impassively.

“So if you’ve been paying attention like you say you have,” Mary said brusquely, “and we both know you have, you know that I touch John with just as much care and tenderness as I do you, though granted more than I do with you. My eyes dilate whenever I see him, my breathing changes when I’m around him, my heart races whenever he walks into a room. This is all conclusive proof that I love John Watson.”

He frowned deeply in frustration, as if she were a difficult puzzle he was having trouble solving.

“My turn,” Mary murmured with a smile, loving every minute of his discomfort. “You, Sherlock Holmes, are in love with John Watson.”

Sherlock blinked and his face took on a mask of impassiveness. “Love is a chemical imbalance. It means nothing in matters of the mind.”

You’d be surprised, Mary thought with a touch of a smile. “But what of in matters of the heart?” she asked.

“Irrelevant,” he said. “I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.”

Mary smiled pityingly. “We both know that that’s not true,” she said simply.

“Careful Mary,” Sherlock said warningly, his eyes taking on that sharp edge. “The last person to tell me that blew his brains out on the roof of St. Bart’s Hospital. I’d choose your words _very_ carefully if I were you.”

“Oh Sherlock,” she said pityingly, making him frown. “You said so yourself.” He quirked an eyebrow questioningly at her. “ ‘If you had been kidnapped and sold into the sex trade’,” she began, making him sit straighter in his seat. “ ‘I wouldn’t rest until I found you again’.” He bristled visibly. She smiled easily. “And why? ‘Because John loves you’.”

A minute of silence fell like a blanket over the room.

“Sherlock,” Mary began. “For all your coldness and your machine like approach to people, you have this amazing gift you’re not even aware you have. And I’m not talking about your brain,” she cut in as Sherlock opened his mouth to interrupt.

“Your heart, Sherlock,” she continued, staring straight into his eyes so that he could understand the severity of what she said next. “Is bigger than many’s and you have an ability to love far greater than most people give you credit for. It’s big but it’s fragile and battered, and you guard it carefully. But when you love, you love _fiercely_.

“You’ve allowed very few people to see it, you guard it so carefully and you’re not willing to give it away to just anyone unless you know they’ll take care of it.”

Mary leaned forward. “You know John would take great care of it.”

Sherlock bristled and gave her a frown coupled with a dangerous glare. “John’s not in love with _me_ , Mary, he’s in love with you. I’ve accepted that. I’ve moved past that. I want to know why you love _me_.”

“John’s right,” Mary said, leaning back into her chair comfortably. “Relationships _really_ aren’t your area.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“Stop changing the subject,” he growled. “And _explain yourself.”_

“You’re a genius,” Mary began, “you have all the evidence in front of you. Go ahead then,” she leaned forward in her seat and smiled at him. “Deduce me.”

Through the shroud of irritation and frustration, Mary could clearly see Sherlock’s eyes take on a delighted gleam.

He leaned forward, his hands steepled against his lips as he brushed them softly against the sides of his fingers while studying her intently.

“You’re enjoying this,” Sherlock said suddenly.

“Yes,” Mary answered, leaning back in her seat.

He was quiet again. “You enjoy yourself when John and I are with you.”

“Yes,” Mary confirmed.

“You love me...” Sherlock paused, thinking.

“Yes?” Mary asked, encouraging him to go on.

“But you also love John?” he asked, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

“Yes,” Mary confirmed again, nodding her head.

“I’m confused,” Sherlock stated.

“I’m not surprised,” Mary said with a sigh.

“It’s not platonic love,” Sherlock continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “We both arouse and excite you--so it’s sexual.” His eyebrows furrowed together in confusion.

“But it’s not just that,” Mary said.

“But it’s not only that,” Sherlock said, his mind clearly miles away, probably lost somewhere in the vast rooms of his mind palace, examining months of data. “You care sincerely for the both of us. It was clear on our first meeting when you assured me you’d speak to John for me though you’d only known me for one evening, and given the impression I had on John, that should have been enough for you to discourage him from seeing me again. 

“But you did anyway, though knowing John you’d probably heard stories of me, and no doubt the stories you’ve heard weren’t _all_ good.” His eyes focused on her. “How is such a thing possible?”

“John only knew you a day and shot a man to protect you,” Mary said with a shrug.

Sherlock leveled her with a look. “No he didn’t,” he said, smiling as though it were ridiculous, and throwing in an almost passable laugh.

“Mmm yeah he did,” Mary said, scrunching her face, looking thoughtful for a moment.

“Nobody,” Sherlock began dangerously, “is supposed to know that.”

“ ’Course not,” Mary said.

“So how do _you_ know?”

“Bit obvious isn’t it,” Mary said, “from the blog.”

Sherlock huffed in annoyance. “Yes, of course,” he said.

“But that’s not all,” Mary said, urging him to continue.

“No,” Sherlock said, “because then you went to great lengths to get me because you thought John was in danger--rightly so--and clearly you loved John even then.”

“So what’s the problem?” Mary asked.

“What is your endgame?” Sherlock asked pointblank.

Mary smiled. Finally, she sighed inwardly, no more dancing around the subject, because, quite frankly, her feet were beginning to hurt. She stared straight into his eyes, studying all the flecks of colors in his irises, making sure he committed what she said next to memory. She didn’t care if he dedicated an entire room to it in his mind palace, or painted the walls with it, so long as he remembered it.

“I want you both,” Mary said, enunciating each word.

Sherlock knitted his eyebrows together and blinked rapidly in confusion.

“Both of us?” He asked, puzzled.

“Yes,” Mary affirmed.

“Me and John?” He rephrased, as though he had misheard.

“Yes,” Mary said again.

“Both John. And I?” he asked again, slowly, as though testing each word. “Together?”

“Yes.”

“Solving crimes?” He asked, hopeful.

“Just the three of us against the rest of the world,” she confirmed, smiling.

“Because?” Sherlock asked, clearly not getting it.

“Because I love you both,” Mary said simply, “and I love being around you two. And if there’s danger, I’m not going to be left behind while you two run off towards it.”

“Sex?” He asked, quirking a brow.

“If that’s all right with you,” Mary replied good-naturedly.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said honestly.

“Oh.” She hadn’t exactly been expecting--well, _that_ , but still--

“No, I mean, I don’t _know-_ -” Sherlock huffed in annoyance as he sat back against the cushion of his seat. “I’ve never done... _it_.”

“Ah,” Mary said, giving a nod.

“At least not with a partner who was in love with me anyway,” Sherlock said as though that were an impossibility. He looked away from her for the first time since they’d begun talking.

Mary frowned. “So you _have_ had sex?” she asked, just to be sure she was getting the facts right.

“I’ve experimented,” Sherlock confirmed, “to a degree, though I didn’t enjoy it.”

Mary studied him. He was uncomfortable, he was cross with someone or something Mary couldn’t see, and she could tell that whatever it was hadn’t been pleasant for him. Mary felt a stab of pity for the detective. She wanted to ask; she wanted to get closer and know what or who did this to him and throttle them for it. But she understood that Sherlock didn’t want to talk about it, and probably never would, and she accepted that. Though she couldn’t throttle the parties responsible for what they did to him in his past, she could ease the damage that they did to him in this present.

She got up and moved her chair closer to him and firmly sat back down again, her knees just brushing against his.

“Sherlock,” she said, calmly and sincerely. He looked up at her. She took his hands in hers, surprising him, but he followed her lead. She stared back into his eyes, gathering her thoughts.

“Sometimes sex is different for people who’re in love,” She began gently as she rubbed her thumbs over his large hands. “You’ll feel alive, and everything will feel so _right_. And sometimes, sex just won’t feel good--even _with_ the person you love. You’ll feel uncomfortable and disgusted, and not want to go on any further--but that doesn’t mean that you don’t still want to be close to the person you’re in love with and that’s okay. Because loving someone doesn’t mean just having sex, the two don’t always coincide with each other. Loving someone means giving them everything you are and not expecting a thing in return.”

She smiled at him. “Though I _hardly_ need to explain that to _you_ , Mister I-Faked-My-Death-Because-A-Psychotic-Criminal-Mastermind-Was-Going-To-Kill-My-Friends Holmes.” He quirked a minuscule smile at her. It was a start, a pleasant one.

But she was far from finished.

“John loves you,” Mary said. He continued to stare at her. “I’ve seen it; I _know_ it. You have years of proof to support that fact. And I love you too. I love that you’ve sacrificed so much for your friends. I love your mind. I love you even when you act like an irritating child, and I love the way you think and the inappropriate humor you and John share. I love that you both get excited when there’s a new case to solve, and I love that you both just have to _look_ at each other before turning into a pair of giggling schoolboys. You both drive me round the bend, but I don’t care: I love you both for it anyway. And I will continue to love you both until the air is gone from my lungs.”

She breathed out a laugh, and shook her head slightly. He remained silent, continuing to study her.

“I love _you_ , you arsehole,” she said with strong conviction. “And if it’s quite all right with you, I’d like to take you in bed sometime and prove it to you--but only if _you_ want to. And if you don’t, that’s quite all right: I’ll prove it to you in other ways.”

She was silent for a moment, gathering her next words carefully.

“When I say I want you both, Sherlock, I don’t just mean sexually,” she continued. “So don’t misunderstand. ‘I want you both’ means I want you both all the time, every day, for the rest of my life. I want to have rows in the kitchen because you forgot you put fingers in the food containers and didn’t tell me; I want to sandwich between you and John and watch crap telly; I want to spend a quiet Sunday afternoon in, just sitting in the flat, each of us doing our own thing; I want to run after both of you while we’re chasing down criminals in London--I want it all.

“And the only question I have, Sherlock,” Mary said, “is do you want all that too? Do you think you could do that? Do you think you could trust me as well as John with your heart? Do you feel anything--anything at all--towards me? I want you to be honest, and if you say no, that’s fine. Just delete everything I’ve just said and I won’t mention it ever again. I just have to know if you love me.”

She stared at him, expectantly, silently worrying what his answer might be. His eyes roved over her body, taking in the details she left in plain sight for him. His eyes finally dropped to their joined hands.

“And,” he said deeply, as he threaded his fingers through hers before looking back up into her eyes. “If I said yes?”

She broke out into a wide smile. She could have cried with joy. “Then I need to know if you’ll help me with John.”

**Author's Note:**

> I may have let my own feelings of what love should be bleed into Mary's words. Sherlock and Mary's banter is surprisingly fun to write. Really though I could go on and on about how much I love Mary.


End file.
